Lullaby of Silence
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: A series of murders once plagued Detroit, which Tony Ferano and Carl Kolchak tried in vain to solve. Now the murders have started again, in L.A. It isn't long before Kolchak and Tony become involved again, along with Micky and company and the D.A.
1. Prologue

**The Monkees/Kolchak: The Night Stalker/Perry Mason**

**Lullaby of Silence**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! The chant in the prologue is the prompt that is inspiring the entire story. I'm told it's from an episode of **_**Buffy the Vampire Slayer**_** called **_**Hush**_**. Regardless, I took it from the Livejournal community Sharp Teeth, provided by Trillianastra as a prompt for a gen horror fic. Horror, particularly psychological horror, is one of my favorite genres to write in. I'm very excited about this fic (and yes, it will be a crossover between three of my favorite shows!) and I hope it will unsettle, disturb, frighten, and most of all, please! It takes place after the other stories I've written about the Monkees encountering Baby Face Morales and his gang from episode 25 of the Monkees' TV series, but they don't need to be read first. Thanks to Aubrie for plot help!**

**Prologue**

_He was standing in a dark void, endless and unwelcoming. No matter which way he turned, it all looked the same. He was alone._

_The far-away echo of a child's giggle brought him whirling around, instantly on alert. He was wrong; he was not alone at all. He could not be._

"_Hello?" he called. His voice reverberated off the invisible walls and spread out, as though passing through unseen tunnels on all sides._

_The giggle came again, from another direction. And there was something else as well—a child's voice speaking in the far distance. He strained to listen, but the words were indiscernible._

_A flash ran past out of the corner of his eye. He started, turning on his heel._

"_Hey, whoever you are, cut it out," he ordered. He reached for the gun in his shoulder holster, but it was gone. He stared, barely able to make out the empty holster in the darkness. Had whoever ran past stolen it?_

_The girl's voice was somewhat closer now. If he strained, he could just make out some of the words._

"_**Can't even shout, can't even cry**_

"_**The Gentlemen are coming by . . ."**_

_A chill ran the length of his spine. It was not just the words, but the matter-of-fact, singsong tone of voice that the child was using. She could just as easily be singing about going to the grocery store or walking down the street._

_Something darted past again. This time he could see clearly; it was a little girl with curly red hair and a lavender-and-white skirt. Her hands were up in front of her and she was laughing. She was so carefree, so out-of-place in this bizarre scene._

_Before he could even ask what she was doing there, the strange chant caught his attention again._

"_**Knocking on windows, tapping on doors**_

"_**They need to take seven and they might take yours . . ."**_

_Now there were other flashes before his eyes. A tall man in a white tuxedo and matching top hat, with a long cape flowing after him. . . . Another, dressed the same, going in the opposite direction. . . . With each swirl of a cape the number of men increased until there were seven in all, wandering the darkness for some unknown purpose._

_Whatever it was, it was evil. He certainly did not pretend to be a good man himself, but the worst that he had done could not compare to whatever these strangers had in mind._

_An icy hand shot out of the darkness, clapping over his nose and mouth. He gasped, clawing at it with his own hands, but to no avail. Panic swept over him as an arm curled around his chest, dragging him into the increasing black. What was this? What did they want with him? Was he going to die?_

_He could not breathe. When he tried to yell, nothing came out. His vocal chords were not even vibrating. The silence settling over him was so thick he could almost touch it. As he faded into oblivion, the little girl's chant continued._

"_**Can't call to Mum, can't say a word**_

"_**You're gonna die screaming, but you won't be heard."**_

xxxx

Tony Ferano shot up in bed, his eyes wide and filled with horror. He gasped, breathing heavily as he began to focus on the darkened room. There were no running or chanting children, no murderous gentlemen in white, and no frightening sensation of utter, unexplainable silence.

"It was just a dream," he muttered aloud, running his hands into his hair.

Only it was _not_ just a dream. There were things within it that he recalled all too well—the children, the tuxedoed men, the threat. . . . He had seen them all before and had been involved with them and against them. It had been one of the most bizarre cases he had ever been handed as a respected detective in the Detroit Police Department, and it was still unsolved.

But that was years ago. He was no longer a police detective, nor was he even on the right side of the law. Why would he be dreaming of that case now? He had not thought of it in ages.

He threw back the quilt and swung his legs off the mattress. He stumbled out of bed, massaging his eyes with the fingers of one hand. The mind worked in weird ways.

That was the only explanation he could come up with.

xxxx

Outside of Los Angeles, at Malibu Beach, a figure in white approached a house. It lingered at the window, observing the occupants through the lit kitchen window. There was a woman with dark brown, messy hair, a black-haired man, and a blond man. They were gathered around the kitchen table for a late-night meal, talking and laughing, none of them aware that they were being watched.

The voyeur waited. He was accustomed to that; he did not strike until all but one had left the room.

From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a brunet boy in his late teens or early twenties strolling along the beach. The boy might have seen him as well. In any case, he quickly changed direction and went back the way he had come. Perhaps he was going to call the police about a peeping Tom. That was no matter; it would not interfere with the man in white's plans unless the police came too soon.

As the meal broke up thirty minutes later, he had the chance he had waited for. Everyone stood, carrying his or her dishes to the sink. For a moment they discussed some matter or another, probably who would wash the dishes that night. The brunette woman laughed, waving the others on. Satisfied, they filed out of the room.

He crept closer to the house.

There was no sound, but the woman sensed when someone had come in. She chuckled under her breath, lightly scolding Jeff for returning to the room. But then the cold breeze swept past and she froze. It was not Jeff. Somehow she knew that before she even turned around.

The stranger in the white tuxedo was standing in the middle of the floor. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She gasped, clutching at her throat as she backed up against the sink. _"Don't come near me, don't come near me!" _she could only mouth in helplessness. As he advanced, she grabbed a large steak knife.

It did no good. His eyes bored into hers as he came closer, stopping directly in front of her. The knife clattered to the floor. Again and again she screamed for help as she fought and kicked against her assailant.

But no one else heard a thing.


	2. The Tuxedo Murders

**Chapter One**

**Then**

"Detective?"

Detective Tony Ferano looked up from his desk, where he had been going over a casefile. "Captain," he greeted in surprise. "What is it?" He started to get up, but the captain held out a hand to stop him.

"I'm reassigning you, Ferano," the older man said. "I want you on this case." He handed over a thick folder.

Tony took it in surprise and flipped it open. "'The Tuxedo Murders'?" he read.

The captain nodded. "The White Tuxedo is a serial killer operating in Detroit and other major cities around the Great Lakes. Obviously, he always wears a white tuxedo." He sighed. "The strange thing about him is that even though there's almost always other people in the house at the time he kills, no one hears a thing. The victims are never heard screaming. Yet when they're found, they look like they were screaming their lungs out."

Tony pulled out a photograph of a young woman, her eyes wide and her mouth opened in a silent cry. A frown crossed his features.

"What do they think is the explanation for this?" he asked.

"No one has the faintest idea," he was told. "One or two people thought they'd been playing the stereo too loud to be heard, but the rest said the homes were completely quiet."

Tony set the photograph aside and picked up another, one of a white-cloaked figure jumping off a second-story balcony. "And this is the murderer?" he guessed.

A nod. "He's been seen fleeing the scene of more than one of these murders, but this is the best shot anyone's got of him."

Tony studied it in thoughtfulness. "I'll get right to work on the case, Captain," he promised.

"I'll feel better with you on the job," the captain said. He took up the folder Tony had been looking through before. "I'll give this one to Johnson."

"It's mostly an open-and-shut case," Tony said.

The captain placed it under his arm. "I thought as much," he said. "The Tuxedo Murders, on the other hand. . . ." He shook his head. "Baffling. Simply baffling."

Tony had to agree.

**Now**

"Tony?"

Tony looked up with a start at Vince's voice. The big man was coming into the kitchen of their current hideout, regarding him with curiosity as he sat at the table nursing a cup of coffee. Tony's return gaze was equal parts flat and questioning.

Vince slid into another chair at the table. "Are you okay?" he asked. "You looked kind of upset."

Tony shrugged. "I'm fine, Vince," he answered.

"Are you thinking about that weird time we had at Paddywhack's mansion?" Vince wondered.

Tony rubbed his eyes. "It didn't even cross my mind."

He sighed. For some reason he wanted to mention at least some of what actually had been concerning him. He considered Vince his friend and found him easy to talk to. At least, certainly it was easier than talking to Baby Face.

". . . I was thinking about an old case I was working on," he said at last. "The Tuxedo Murders. It was never solved."

Vince stared at him with wide eyes. "You were working on the Tuxedo Murders?" he gasped. "I remember that case! It was weird."

"_Weird_ doesn't even begin to describe it," Tony muttered. Louder he said, "I don't know why I was thinking about it after all this time. It doesn't matter anymore."

Vince was quiet for a moment. "Do you . . . feel bad about how things turned out? With your life, I mean. Not the case."

Tony sipped the coffee. "I don't even know that."

Living as a gangster had never been the life he had wanted. He had not even intended to remain in the gang when he had joined. It had only been an option when he had been on the run for his life and had not known where else to go. But he had soon learned that joining at all had been foolish. Once he was in, he had not been able to get out. After all this time, he did not even know what he would do with his life if he did get out.

Harry entered the kitchen with the newspaper, preempting further conversation on the subject. He looked it over as he walked, nearly tripping on the floor for lack of paying attention.

Tony sighed, shaking his head. "One of these days, you're going to fall," he said matter-of-factly.

Harry grunted, setting the paper on the table. "There was a weird murder last night," he said.

"We're criminals and _you're_ finding a murder weird?" Tony turned the paper towards him. In the next moment he blanched.

"What is it, Tony?" Vince got up and came around to look.

"It's just like those old murders back in Detroit," Harry said. "You know, where some guy in a white tuxedo killed somebody and no one ever heard anything, even though it looked like the person was screaming."

Vince's mouth dropped open. "Really?" He looked to Tony, who was clutching the newspaper in his hands and devouring the story. At last the former police detective raised his gaze to meet his ally's.

"He's right," he said, grim. "Either this is a copycat murder or the original culprits have decided to start the Tuxedo Murders up again."

And in spite of what he had said about it not mattering now, he wanted to know why. He had worked on that case for weeks, until for some unexplainable reason the killings had stopped. Now, the very night he had been dreaming about the case, a new Tuxedo Murder had taken place.

"What's this about murdering in a tuxedo?"

Tony looked up at the sound of Baby Face's grouchy, gravelly voice. The gang leader was wandering into the kitchen doorway, squinting through half-asleep eyes at the scene. He did not look pleased. "If I had to wear one of those monkey suits, I'd murder the guy who put me in it."

"Just be grateful you're alive to wear one," Tony commented flatly.

After what they had been through at Paddywhack's house of horror, it was still hard to get used to the fact that Baby Face was back among the living and not still an angry, vengeful spirit. Sometimes he would come into a room and Tony would do a doubletake, unable to believe what he was seeing.

"Eh." Baby Face crashed at the table and peered at the newspaper. "So they think some serial killer's loose again. That don't have anything to do with us."

"It does, Baby Face." Tony looked at him, his gaze steady. "I was the one trying to crack the original case in Detroit."

Baby Face raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?" He gave the story a second look. "Heh. Weird. Like it's followin' you around."

"I was thinking the same thing," Tony muttered.

xxxx

Halfway across the country, another Tony was yelling instead of muttering.

"_KOLCHAK!"_

Carl Kolchak, newspaper reporter of the macabre and morbid, strolled easily into the big man's office. "You rang, my dear editor Vincenzo?" he offered.

Tony Vincenzo waved a paper in the other man's face. "Did you put this on my desk?"

Kolchak peered at it. "Well, the _Los Angeles Chronicle_," he observed. "How about that."

"Don't be cute, Kolchak," Vincenzo snarled. "This is an article describing a murder last night. A murder that sounds very similar to those unsolved murders from several years ago—the ones _you_ said were being committed by a bunch of supernatural creeps!"

"I said no such thing!" Kolchak retorted in indignation. "I said there was _evidence_ that they _could_ be a bunch of supernatural creeps!" He stabbed the paper with his forefinger. "And you've _admitted_ that this murder sounds similar. I fully agree!"

"And you wanna be put on the story," Vincenzo deduced. "Is that it, Kolchak?"

"That's it exactly!" Kolchak said. "Tony, the good people of Los Angeles have no idea how to handle this. They aren't familiar with the case. But I am!"

Vincenzo exhaled in exasperation. "Kolchak, the LAPD had already contacted the Detroit PD, asking for anyone who worked on the original Tuxedo Murders to come in as a consultant. Unfortunately, that's impossible. The guy who was working with you on that case left the force and disappeared!"

"I know," Kolchak frowned. "And don't you see, Vincenzo? That leaves me!" He spread his arms wide. "_I'm_ the only available connection! The LAPD is probably being referred to the good old INS as we speak."

"Lord have mercy on us all," Vincenzo snarled. "Look, Kolchak, am I to understand that you not only want to go out on this case, you want to _help_ the _police?_"

"I've never had anything against helping the police," Kolchak countered. "It's just that they usually don't want my expertise!" He came closer, slamming his hands on Vincenzo's desk. "Tony, think of how big this story will be if we actually solve the Tuxedo Murders!"

"_If,"_ Vincenzo echoed. "That's a really big _if_, Kolchak. You didn't have any luck with it before."

"That doesn't mean we should give up!" Kolchak jerked upright and started to pace the office. "I know you want some publicity."

"_Good_ publicity, Kolchak. That's the keyword." Vincenzo glowered. "And forgive me if I'm not that confident in your ability to deliver."

Before Kolchak could answer, the phone gave a sharp _ring._ His boss snapped it up, barking into it. "Yeah?" Instantly his eyes widened and his demeanor changed. "Oh. Yes, sir. Yes, I've seen it. . . . Actually, he was just suggesting that himself." Vincenzo turned and eyed Kolchak with a scrutinizing gaze. "Yes, sir. I'll have him on the next plane to Los Angeles. . . . Lieutenant Tragg. Fine. Yes, sir. . . . Yes, sir." Another glare. "I'll make sure of that, sir. Yes. Thank you, sir. Goodbye."

Vincenzo hung up and turned his attention to Kolchak, who was staring with goggle-eyed interest. "That was the police chief," he announced.

"And they want me on the case!" Kolchak proclaimed.

"On _one_ condition," Vincenzo interrupted. "That you keep all of your crackpot spooky theories here in Chicago. The LAPD remembers you well after that disaster with the sharp-toothed broad and the big wooden cross. Don't think they won't hesitate to toss you unceremoniously out on your ear if you push their buttons too far."

"I'll be good, Vincenzo. You know I can play by the rules." _Unless something happens that means I or someone else will be in danger if I do,_ Kolchak added to himself.

Vincenzo glowered at him, unconvinced. "Well, I'm against it, but you were right—the LAPD has been asking for you. So has the Sheriff's Department. They're probably just as reluctant about it as I am to send you. But to refuse would be an obstruction of justice, so you're to be on the next plane to L.A. Got it?"

"Yes, sir!" Kolchak gave a mock salute as he turned and made a beeline for the door. "You won't regret this, Tony. I promise!"

"Yeah, sure," Vincenzo grumbled. "You're working with a Lieutenant Tragg!" he hollered after Kolchak as the intrepid reporter made his way to his own desk. "Malibu isn't under the jurisdiction of the LAPD, but they want everything you've got in case the killer moves into L.A. next."

Kolchak nodded with a wave, not turning back. "Lieutenant Tragg, right."

Vincenzo slumped against the doorframe. "Why do I have a really bad feeling about this?" he moaned to himself.

Kolchak heard him but did not bother to answer. He was too busy gathering his trusty camera and tape recorder for the trip.

There was something else he was wondering about as well. What had ever happened to the guy who had worked with him on the case in Detroit? That detective had been one of the few police who had not given him a headache. And then suddenly there was a weird, unexplainable scandal and he had vanished.

All Kolchak really knew was that he had been falsely accused of killing his wife. He had apparently been acquitted _in absentia_, but the real murderer was still at large. And the detective was still missing. If the Detroit PD knew what had happened to him, they were keeping it under wraps.

Well, this case seemed to be resurrecting ghosts of the past. For all Kolchak knew, he would meet up with every one of the players again—Detective Ferano included.

xxxx

"I still don't know about this."

Mike regarded Micky in exasperation. "Oh, come on, Mick. You said you saw a guy in a white cape last night, looking in some chick's window. Now the district attorney wants to talk to you about it."

"So you go in and talk to him," Davy put in. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Oh no?" Micky frowned. "What if I didn't see what I thought I saw? What if it was just some peeping Tom? Maybe he didn't have anything to do with that creepy murder."

"Maybe he did," Peter said. "I've never seen anyone in a white cape on the beach before."

"And maybe that guy'll come after us next," Mike said. "So we need to get the word out about him so we might have some kinda protection." He tried to steer Micky towards the building.

"Besides, now that the police know about it, you might get in trouble if you don't talk to the district attorney, Micky," Davy said. "Especially when he's asking for you. Come on, it'll only take a few minutes."

At last Micky gave a frustrated, resigned sigh. "Okay," he said. "I'll do it." He pulled away from Mike and walked up to the building, hauling open the door. "But if he comes back to kill us in our sleep, I'll know he probably knows I told."

The other Monkees trailed behind as Micky entered and found directions to the district attorney's office. They exchanged worried and concerned glances on their way to the elevator.

"I don't know," Mike said low to the others. "Micky's been acting strange since last night. Don't you think?"

Davy nodded. "He's hiding something," he said.

"What if that guy _does_ know Micky saw him?" Peter gasped. "Maybe he went and threatened Micky."

"Or maybe he threatened the three of us," Mike frowned. "That'd be more than enough to make him wanna keep quiet."

It was hard to decide. On the other hand, maybe even if Micky _had_ seen the murderer—and vice versa—there had been nothing more but a look between them. A look alone, however, could be plenty to frighten a Monkee, if it had been the look of a cold-hearted killer.

The district attorney of Los Angeles County had an office high on one of the many levels of the tall structure. When the elevator doors opened and Micky and the rest got out, they were standing in one of countless similar corridors.

"There it is," Mike pointed to a plaque. "Hamilton Burger, district attorney. Must be his secretary in there; I don't recognize him." Through the glass door a dark-haired man was typing away on a laptop, involved with his work.

"I didn't know you knew the district attorney, Mike," Davy said in surprise.

"Well . . . I don't," Mike confessed. "But I've seen him on TV."

Micky was still agitated. He wrung his hands, pacing up and down and turning around. "I'm having second thoughts about this," he said.

The other three quickly grabbed him. "Oh no, shotgun. You're gonna get in there and talk to Mr. Burger," Mike declared.

"It'll be over before you know it," Davy said.

"We'll stay out here and wait for you," Peter said, trying to be encouraging.

Micky at last conceded. "Okay then." He took a deep breath. "Here goes nothing." He opened the door and went inside. "Hello?"

The man at the desk looked up with a start. "Hello," he greeted. "Are you here to see Mr. Burger?"

"Yeah," Micky said with hesitance. "I'm Micky Dolenz."

"The drummer. Oh yes." The secretary nodded to the other door. "He's expecting you. Just go on in."

"Thanks, I think." Micky walked past him, still more hesitant as he opened the inner door and peered into the other office. "Mr. Burger?"

A man in his forties glanced up from an open folder on his desk. "Yes," he said. "I'm Hamilton Burger." He stood and came around the desk to shake Micky's hand.

Still tense, Micky accepted. "I'm Micky Dolenz," he said. "I came about the . . . the guy in the tuxedo."

"Oh, Mr. Dolenz. Sit down, please." Mr. Burger indicated a chair in front of his desk. Micky sat uneasily, trying and failing to relax. Mr. Burger walked back to his own chair and sat facing the Monkee. "Now, Lieutenant Tragg said you saw the man looking in the window at Sharon Backman's house."

"Yeah," Micky said. "I thought it was her place, but I wasn't sure. I went and called the police anyway; I could see he wasn't up to any good."

"And by the time the nearest unit responded, Ms. Backman was dead," Mr. Burger frowned. "Could you describe the man you saw?"

"Not really, Sir," Micky said. "All I really saw was his tuxedo. It was some white monkey suit, man. He had a top hat and cape too. I thought he was probably coming from some masquerade party. I probably would've gone and asked him where it was if he hadn't been staring in that window."

"I see." Mr. Burger nodded. "And did you see the man at any other time that night?"

Micky hesitated so long that it was clear he was hiding something. Mr. Burger peered at him. "Mr. Dolenz?"

Micky jumped a mile. "Oh. What was the question again?" he asked. His innocent expression was a put-on, but his embarrassment was genuine.

Mr. Burger gave no indication of noticing. "If you saw the man in the tuxedo any other time that night."

Micky swallowed hard. "Well . . . I . . . I don't think you'll believe me," he stammered at last, shifting in the chair.

"Mr. Dolenz, a woman is dead," Mr. Burger told him. "Even if I don't believe you, I need to hear about anything else you know that might connect with the case."

Micky sighed, bowing his head in resignation. "Okay." He looked up again. "I did see him, just standing on the beach looking at me. His cape was blowing in the wind."

"When was this?" Mr. Burger pressed.

"I guess after he killed that girl," Micky admitted. "I don't know; I wasn't looking at my watch."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Well . . ." Micky smiled in discomfort. "That's the part you probably won't believe. No, he didn't. But I heard some little kid talking. Only it wasn't out loud." He was all but mumbling now. "It sounded like she was talking in my head."

Instead of laughing or dismissing him, Mr. Burger tensed. "What did she say?"

"I couldn't really make any sense out of it, man," Micky said. "It was some weird poem. Something about gentlemen and seven something and people screaming and not being heard. Then this fog came out of nowhere. When it was gone, the guy was too!"

Mr. Burger leaned back, visibly troubled. "Mr. Dolenz, I'll be honest with you," he finally said. "I'm not a believer in the supernatural or anything off-the-wall. At least, I would like not to be. And little-known sciences such as telepathy are things I don't know what to make of. I'd rather think they're not true. I probably wouldn't believe you except for this:

"A while back there was a string of unsolved murders in the Great Lakes area, perpetrated by at least one man in a white tuxedo. And one of the only things we know about him is that there was apparently an unknown and unseen child with him, who sometimes spoke to people through what seemed to be mental telepathy. It was always the same, too—a poem like what you've told me. That information was never released to the public; the Detroit PD told my office about it two hours ago."

Micky gaped, wondering if he dared to relax. "So you don't think I'm nuts?" he exclaimed.

"At this point, no, I don't," said Mr. Burger. "But I'm concerned about your safety, Mr. Dolenz. Yours and your friends'. I'll arrange for a police guard to stay with you at all times."

"Thanks," Micky said. He shifted again. "But uh . . . do you think he'll really come after us?"

Mr. Burger sighed. "I wouldn't put it past him," he said. "I'm sorry I can't be more encouraging."

"Well . . ." Micky tried and failed to smile now. "I guess if there's nothing to be encouraging about, you just can't be." He started to get up. "Thanks."

Mr. Burger stood too. "If you remember anything else, Mr. Dolenz, or if something else happens, please call my office."

Micky nodded. "Sure. I will." He headed for the outer office, where the others were waiting.

"Well?" Mike asked when Micky came out. "How'd it go?"

Micky put on an easy-going smile. "Fine," he said. "Just fine."


	3. Caught on Film

**Chapter Two**

**Then**

Marvin Platt.

Brown hair, green eyes, 57 years of age.

Deceased.

Found lying in his house with his eyes and mouth wide open.

An unidentified man in a white tuxedo was seen leaving the premises shortly before the body was discovered.

Marvin was the first known victim of the White Tuxedo during his operations in Detroit. Three people were dead so far—Marvin, a 27-year-old woman by the name of Jane Alvers, and James Dempsey, aged 87 years. There was no pattern, no clues on where or when the White Tuxedo would strike. The victims had nothing in common, had never met each other, and lived in completely different parts of Detroit.

Tony Ferano frowned, setting the folder aside. He had been going over it and over it for the last hour, never getting any closer to the solution. And what, perhaps, disturbed him the most in a case where everything was disturbing was the Phantom Child.

Jane Alvers' roommate Katie had been the first to report hearing a little girl's voice in her head, softly and matter-of-factly chanting a strange verse. She thought she had seen the shadow of a child darting past her vision, running, as it were, in slow motion. And yet she had known no one was there . . . other than the tuxedo-clad man vanishing over the lawn. Then an indescribable feeling of dread and fear had come over her and she had gone looking through the apartment, soon finding Jane's lifeless and silently screaming form. Something similar had happened with a resident of the rest house where James Dempsey had lived.

People screaming without being heard, men in white tuxedos, and a spectral child reciting a poem. Could this case possibly get any stranger?

Tony glanced at the folder again. All of the victims had the number seven in their ages. Could that possibly have anything to do with it? The number seven had to play a part in the mess; the chanting kid said something about "the gentlemen" needing "seven" of something. But seven what? Lives?

In frustration he ran a hand into his hair. "This looks more like a case for the Ghostbusters than the Detroit PD," he muttered aloud.

"You have no idea how right you might be. Detective Ferano?"

Tony looked up with a start. He had certainly not expected to be overheard, nor for anyone to not take it as a sarcastic crack. "That's right," he said. "Who are you?"

A hand was thrust in his face. "Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service."

Tony accepted the hand, but with hesitance. "I've never heard of that." He studied his visitor. Carl Kolchak was red-haired, middle-aged, and sporting ancient clothing. He also looked as though he could not care less if anyone thought so.

"Well, it's based in Chicago," Kolchak admitted. "My editor sent me out here to get a firsthand story on the Tuxedo Murders. It's been getting a lot of press across the nation, especially after the latest killing."

"I know," Tony answered, a bit stiffly. "So Mr. Kolchak, what is it you want from me? You sound like you already know more about the case than I do." He fixed the reporter with one of the infamous cold stares that had often resulted in suspects either breaking down and confessing or being utterly creeped out.

"Oh, not necessarily _more_," Kolchak said. "That's why I said you _might_ be right."

"But you think there is something . . . _supernatural_ going on." Tony started to get up. "I don't have time for crazy theories, Mr. Kolchak. This is a police station. We deal in facts, not kids' nightmares."

"Alright, then here's a fact for you." Kolchak slammed a photograph on top of the folder. "A freelance photographer I know was at the scene of the third murder. He took this picture."

Tony leaned forward, staring at it. It _was_ the murder scene, there was no question of that. James Dempsey's body was sprawled on the floor, face-up, his mouth wide open in that chilling noiseless scream. A man in a white tuxedo was standing over the body, his face mostly turned away from the light. And standing in the doorway of the room, looking in, was the translucent figure of a small girl with curly red hair.

He looked up at Kolchak. "I'd say the picture was faked if it wasn't that every detail is in order in that room," he said. "Although I guess if someone got hold of the negatives from the police files, they could still put it together."

"They didn't," Kolchak said. "This picture is right from my photographer friend's camera." He tapped it with his finger.

"If that's true, Mr. Kolchak, why has he been withholding it?" Tony frowned. "It's material evidence in a murder!"

"He's afraid, Detective," Kolchak said. "I was the only one he'd give it to."

"Does he think the White Tuxedo will come after him, too?" Tony asked.

"That's already happened," Kolchak said, grim. "When he snapped the picture, the guy in the white monkey suit turned to look. Then it was as if he was looking into my friend's very soul, reading him, hypnotizing him! He wrote it all down for me on these pieces of paper." He took two wrinkled sheets of lined notebook paper out of his pocket, which Tony took.

"Why did he write it?" Tony shuffled them, glancing briefly at what was scratched out in an older man's shaky handwriting.

"He had to," Kolchak said. "Ever since this happened, he hasn't been able to talk. His doctor confirmed it; he's completely mute!"

Tony leaned back, hard. "It was probably just because it was such a psychological shock for him to witness a murder," he said.

"Maybe so," Kolchak said. "That isn't the point."

Tony considered that. Then he rose, still holding the looseleaf pages in his hand. "I want to see your friend," he said. "I'll read this on the way. Maybe when we get there I'll have more things to ask him."

Kolchak perked up. "You won't be sorry, Detective," he proclaimed.

"Maybe," Tony said, keeping his voice guarded. If there was any truth to it, this mysterious man was certainly their most important witness.

A witness who couldn't even speak.

He had wanted to land a big case. Well, now he had a doosey.

**Now**

Hamilton Burger was at his desk, going over all current information held by the Detroit PD. A frown crossed his features. Something did not seem right. More than once he had stumbled over what seemed to be a gap—missing evidence, witnesses who had been supposed to be interviewed but who had apparently not been, and references to photographs which were simply not there. The Detroit police chief insisted he had sent everything, but more and more that was looking unlikely.

So where had the rest gone? Who had taken it out, and why?

Was there any possible chance that . . .

Hamilton let that thought die in his mind. He had been going to suggest to himself that the remainder had been removed for being too fantastic, too lenient towards the supernatural. The case as he knew it was so weird that it almost seemed possible.

He picked up a pen, tapping it idly in his hand. Maybe he had been too permissive with that Dolenz kid. But for the kid to give a completely similar account about the girl, when he could have had no knowledge of that aspect of the case, had shaken him.

That entire angle of the case unnerved him, as a matter of fact. Mysterious kids chanting so boldly about murder?

He did not believe in the supernatural, as he had told Micky. Or at least, he did not want to. He had been forced to concede that maybe it wasn't all nonsense, due to a strange series of events he would rather forget. And he felt that ESP and other so-called phenomenon were most likely fake.

But how, then, was he going to explain all the independent witnesses hearing some little girl in their heads?

He groaned, reaching for the phone. Maybe Mignon Germaine would have an idea about what was happening. Although her ideas, whatever they were, would likely favor the paranormal.

Perhaps he should just give in and accept it.

But no, he wouldn't. Not until he had exhausted every other option . . . whatever _they_ were.

xxxx

Micky was uncharacteristically jumpy and nervous by the time the Monkees got back to the Pad. As they stepped inside, something fell down behind the door. Micky flew several feet into the air. "What was that?"

"It wasn't anything," Davy frowned. "Micky, what's got into you?"

"Nothing," Micky said with a weak and unconvincing grin. "Nothing at all."

"The problem is, more and more we can see that's just not true," Mike said. "You're not telling us everything. Did you tell the D.A. what's bothering you?"

"Why would I tell him?" Micky retorted, looking back at Mike as he walked into the room. "I don't even know him." He yelped as he almost tripped over Mr. Schneider in a chair in the middle of the floor.

"But if it has something to do with the case, and I'm suspecting it does, then he'd need to know about it." Mike closed the door behind them.

"That doesn't mean I'd tell him," Micky said.

"Micky, this isn't like you," Mike frowned.

"Won't you just come off it and tell us what's wrong?" Davy exclaimed.

"We're worried!" Peter interjected.

Micky sighed, his shoulders slumping as he stood at the foot of the stairs. "Let's just say we might all be in danger, okay? Mr. Burger said he'd make sure we have police protection." He gripped the banister and headed up. "I'm sure we'll be fine."

"And I'm sure there's more to this," Mike said as they watched him ascend and vanish. "But it's not like we can force him to tell us. We'll just have to wait until he's good and ready."

"I hope it'll be soon," Peter said sadly.

"Well, I don't want to wait!" Davy exclaimed. "He might never feel ready to tell us if we don't take this bull by the horns ourselves. If he really understood how we feel, I can't believe he wouldn't give in."

"Davy, man, maybe _we're_ the ones who don't understand," Mike said. "And if we did, maybe we'd know why Micky doesn't feel like talking yet."

Davy paused on the stairs. "He admitted we might all be in danger, Mike," he protested. "Even if just for that reason alone, don't we deserve to know more?"

Mike sighed. "Micky would never let it get to the point where we were actually getting hurt before telling us," he said.

"Maybe he doesn't really think anything will happen," Peter suggested. "Maybe it's something else he's upset about."

Mike blinked and looked over. "You might have something there, Shotgun," he said.

"One thing and then another," Davy said in exasperation. "Can't we make up our minds?"

Micky seemed to feel the same. Without warning he threw open the door to his and Mike's bedroom and yelled down the stairs. "I saw the tuxedo man on the beach and a kid was talking in my mind about gentlemen taking seven something and not being able to yell for help! And the district attorney said that other people heard the same thing when this guy killed someone!" And he slammed the door again.

The other Monkees stared up at it. "Well," Mike said at last, "that's . . . something else, alright."

xxxx

Carl Kolchak was in Los Angeles by evening. He found his suitcase—which was miraculously not missing—and ambled out the door to the rental car already waiting. After finding and checking into his hotel he was to go to the police station and ask for Lieutenant Tragg.

He eyed the streets in derision as he drove. He had never particularly liked Los Angeles; it seemed such a strange, garish, and even ostentatious city. Not to mention it went on forever. L.A. had gobbled up lots of smaller cities, incorporating them as sub-divisions of itself. Kolchak doubted he could remember all of them if he tried. Worse, it meant the White Tuxedo would have a _lot_ of space to cover if he had decided to make Los Angeles County his next killing ground.

The hotel and his assigned room were nice enough. As long as he could get a decent sleep, that was what was important. It was tempting to flop on the bed and test its softness level. But he supposed he should hurry on along. The L.A. police were not likely to have much patience for him, especially since they already knew about his "crackpot" theories. Better not to start off on the wrong foot by being late.

So Kolchak left the comfort of the room and headed for the police administration building. It was bustling and crowded when he arrived, as he had figured it would be. He stumbled out of the way of several people just going up to the nearest vacant window at the help counter. Others waited in similar lines in front of other windows. This was certainly a far cry from a lone sergeant at a lone desk.

"Can I help you?"

He looked up with a start. A tall, young plainclothesman with a trenchcoat and fedora was standing in front of him, curious.

"Well, I don't know," Kolchak drawled. "I'm looking for a Lieutenant Tragg."

Something sparked in the detective's eyes. "I was going to see him myself," he said. "You must be Mr. Kolchak." He looked Kolchak up and down. "Yes, you definitely must be him."

"Forgive me for not knowing if that's a compliment," Kolchak said with dripping sarcasm.

Now his contact looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that I've heard a lot about you. I'm Lieutenant Anderson, by the way." He held out a hand.

Kolchak slowly took it. "Are you working this case too, by any chance?"

"Not yet," said Lieutenant Anderson. "If . . . something happens, I'll probably be put on it."

"You mean a murder that falls under the jurisdiction of the LAPD," Kolchak said.

"Yes." Lieutenant Anderson started down the hall. Kolchak hastened to keep up.

"So . . . what's Lieutenant Tragg like?" he asked, as much or more because he wanted to brace himself as it was because of his curiosity.

"He's a long-time veteran of the police force," Anderson told him. "I've worked with him for years. He doesn't like nonsense, I can tell you that."

Kolchak nodded. "Nonsense like . . ."

"Like burning old city landmarks to ward off supposed vampires," Anderson finished for him. "Yes, Mr. Kolchak, that story has circulated through the precincts of the Los Angeles Police Department longer than I care to remember."

"Now, I paid to have that cross rebuilt," Kolchak hurriedly interjected, wagging his forefinger at the Lieutenant. "Surely that part has gone around too."

"Oh yes. And your cooperation on that matter was much appreciated. Although I'm sure you realize that the department would have insisted you make restitution even if you hadn't willingly agreed."

"I realize it very well," Kolchak said. "Yes, _very_ well. I've had quite a few run-ins with the police."

"I'm afraid I believe it." Anderson paused in front of a door marked _Lieutenant Tragg _once they reached the Homicide department. He turned the knob and stepped inside, Kolchak closely following. "Lieutenant? Carl Kolchak is here."

The man at the desk looked up. "Oh, he is?" He glanced to the second person entering his office. "Yes . . . come in, won't you?" He stood, gesturing at the room.

Kolchak was not sure what he had expected Lieutenant Tragg would be like, but an older, shorter man was not it. He had been around enough police in his day, however, to be wary of the proffered friendliness. Tragg was probably craftier and tougher than he would let on at first.

Tragg was already sizing his visitor up and down, just as Kolchak was doing to him. "Well, so you're Carl Kolchak," he mused. "Lieutenant Arthur Tragg." He held out his hand and Kolchak hesitantly shook it. "And I assume you've met Lieutenant Anderson over here."

"Why, yes, I have," Kolchak said. "As a matter of fact, we had a very . . . nice little chat." He glanced at Anderson with some confusion. Was he planning to stick around and have his own chat with Tragg afterwards? Anderson gave no indication of his plans.

Without warning the grip tightened. "Let's be clear on one thing, Mr. Kolchak." Tragg's voice had hardened, too. "We don't tolerate Tomfoolery around here. There will be no slaying of vampires or other legendary creatures on my watch. Is this understood?"

Kolchak managed a friendly smile. "Perfectly, Lieutenant." Yep, his new ally was no pushover.

"Eh. Good." Tragg released Kolchak's hand and walked back to his desk. "Now, give us everything you've got on the Tuxedo Murders."

"Well . . . you might not like some of it," Kolchak said. He moved with hesitance to the chair in front of the desk. "A lot of this case is very . . . unexplainable."

"Yes, so I know." Tragg sat down. "Here's everything we got from the Detroit PD." He handed Kolchak a folder of freshly faxed documents and photographs. "Is it all here?"

Kolchak went through the packet, pausing to look at certain papers and pictures for the first time in several years. A frown crossed his features. "No," he said.

Anderson came closer. "'No'?" he repeated.

"What's missing?" Tragg demanded.

"Several things." Kolchak set the open folder back on Tragg's desk. "Several _very important_ things, I might add! Including the photograph taken by one of the White Tuxedo's victims."

"What are you talking about?" Tragg peered at him. "None of the victims ever survived."

"Oh, not the ones he meant to kill, of course," Kolchak said. "But there were several others, the ones who now and then stumbled across one of the murder scenes before the White Tuxedo could get away. Instead of killing them too, he left his mark on them in . . . _other ways._"

"Don't speak so ominously, man!" Tragg frowned. "Talk in plain English!"

"Alright then, I will." Kolchak leaned forward. "More often than not, these particular victims were left mute after their encounters with the White Tuxedo." His eyes narrowed. "Some of them never did regain the ability to speak."

"And you say one of them took a photograph that used to be in the casefile?" Anderson looked unsettled.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Kolchak said. "Detective Ferano and I put that file together. We went back to it again and again while we were trying to solve the case. Once the killings stopped in Detroit and the White Tuxedo disappeared, as far as I knew he held onto it."

"Did you have copies of that photograph or any of this other missing information?" Tragg lifted up several sheets of paper, as if he hoped to find that the absent pieces had miraculously resurrected in the folder during the discussion.

"Just of that photograph," Kolchak said. "A friend of mine snapped it. I was going to bring it out here with me, but the strangest thing happened. I couldn't find it." He shook his head. "I thought I'd just misplaced it. But after seeing this, I don't know what to think."

"There's no chance that Detective Ferano might have these missing articles with him?" Anderson ventured.

"It's possible," Kolchak shrugged.

"Problem is, no one knows where he's gotten himself," Tragg said. "That's why we had to send for you instead." He looked disgusted. "The Detroit PD said something about him having started an illegal gambling racket and using extortion—while he was still on the force."

Kolchak stared at him. "Maybe that was a lie too," he protested. "Just like him killing his wife."

"Oh, it wasn't a lie," Anderson said. "There's proof of his involvement in those rackets. And it's also quite well-known that he's been running around with Baby Face Morales for the last few years, ever since his disappearance in Detroit."

Now Kolchak's jaw dropped. "Well, it isn't known by me," he said. "The man I knew wasn't about to take up with vicious gangsters!"

"Apparently you didn't know Detective Ferano as well as you thought," Tragg said. "But nevermind all that; we're not getting anywhere." He stared down Kolchak in all seriousness. "Can you give us a list of everything that isn't here and what it contained?"

Kolchak snapped to attention. "I believe I can," he agreed.

"That's what we're counting on," Tragg said. "Oh, by the way—I was testing you with this folder. Mr. Burger, our district attorney, also came to the conclusion that some items were missing. However, that was only after he'd studied it for some time. Now you came to that same conclusion after just a brief glance by comparison. I can't decide whether I'm more curious or impressed."

"What can I say?" Kolchak returned. "Lieutenant, when I tell you all the details of this case, it shouldn't be such a surprise that my memory concerning it is good. I lived and breathed the Tuxedo Murders for weeks. It's not something anyone could soon forget."


End file.
